Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  The Vice President rose. "It only remains," he said, "to wish you all a very happy and successful journey."

  The handshaking over, the five passengers filed out onto the escalator. Below them, by the side of the Terminal Building, lay the spaceboat, a slim, cone-shaped vessel, gleaming in the artificial light. They all tottered on board.

  Clearance was granted almost immediately. Slowly, they passed through the main airlock and into the open. It was dark outside and only the change in elevation told them that they were climbing the launching ramp. Behind them, the huge inverted bowl of the city glowed in hermetic splendor. Movement ceased. The warning indicator flashed on: LIE BACK AND FASTEN SAFETY HARNESS. A steward checked their positions.

  They lay, tensed and motionless, waiting for the sudden thrust that would hurl them into space.

  * * * * *

  It was the two-hundred-and-twentieth day.

  As Curtis Delman returned to consciousness, his first feeling was of relief. The cumulative strain of one takeoff after another could prove disastrous. It was one of the drawbacks to a spaceboat that the effect of rapid acceleration should be so marked. In a liner, the takeoff was little more than an inconvenience--and, despite exhaustive tests, there was no telling how an old heart would react to a series of blackouts. Now the danger no longer existed, for in thirty days they would arrive at Rejuvenal. As for the journey back, he would make it with the heart of a young man.

  He unclipped the safety harness and lowered his legs over the side of the bunk.

  He had no wish to remain in his cabin. It was too small for comfort, though, like all Stellano products, superbly designed. Not an inch had been wasted. Personal luggage was stowed under the bunk, cupboards were built in, tables folded back and even the basin was retractable. Every conceivable necessity had been crammed into a few square feet.

  When he reached the lounge, he found the others already seated.

  There were two vacant chairs, one next to John Bridge, the other between Tarsh and Pellinger. He chose the former.

  "So you survived?" said Pellinger. He sounded disappointed.

  "Yes, I survived," replied Delman. "And since we appear to be exercising our powers of observation, I hope the same may be said of you?"

  Gillian Murray laughed. Walter Pellinger opened his mouth as if to make some retort, then thought better of it, and turned back to the vidar screen.

  The screen took up most of the far wall. The image in focus was the scene behind them. In the center, like a giant grapefruit, hung the planet Algon--a world of water with a few islands dotting the surface of an ocean--while anchored in space, some hundreds of miles above, lay a small satellite.

  "That's a funny one," said John Bridge.

  The lawyer smiled. He'd grown to like Bridge. The mystery of his wealth had been discovered months ago--he'd won a sweepstake fortune. That and his own meager savings had together proved just sufficient to buy him a new lease of life. His family hadn't liked the idea; but, as he'd pointed out to them, it was his money and what use was it to him if he was too old to enjoy it? The simplicity and good nature of the man came as a refreshing change from the sullenness of Pellinger and the cynicism of Jason Tarsh.

  "It's a radio-platform," Delman explained.

  * * * * *

  Sometimes it seemed almost incredible that John Bridge had never left the Earth. He was a Londoner by birth and, before this trip, had traveled no farther than New York. To him, everything they saw and did was a new adventure.

  "But we don't have radio-platforms back home," Bridge said. "Why do they need them here?"

  "In our own solar system," Delman told him, "there's an interplanetary link-up--an expensive business--but we did have them four hundred years ago. Out here, it's not worth the cost. The platform acts as a go-between. It can intercept messages and pass them down to the spacedrome on Algon, or it can transmit to a spaceship in flight. But direct contact between spaceship and spacedrome is impossible, because the ionized layer of the atmosphere deflects the radio waves."

  "I see. Is there one over Rejuvenal, then?"

  "I don't think so. At least, there wasn't when I was last there. It doesn't really warrant it. There's only the house and a small landing-ground. And a spaceboat arrives and departs every thirty days, so nothing can happen."

  "What about boots? Do we have to wear them?"

  "You mean gravity-boots?" Delman asked.

  Walter Pellinger scowled irritably and shifted his position. "Yes, I suppose so--those heavy things we wore on Borenius and Ziar."

  Delman shook his head. "No, curiously enough, we don't. It's only a tertiary planet--less than one-eighth of Earth's volume--but its specific gravity is enormous. Rejuvenite, the rock it's composed of, is one of the heaviest minerals ever discovered. They say--"

  "Look, Delman," Walter Pellinger interrupted, "let that blasted man wear his boots, if he wants to. I'm sure I don't care. But for heaven's sake, stop this geological survey! It's bad enough being cooped up in this tub without having to listen to a lot of nursery small-talk."

  "Gosh, I'm sorry, Mr. Pellinger--" John Bridge began.

  "I wasn't talking to you," said Pellinger curtly, "but, since you've chosen to butt in, I'll say this--you don't belong here. You're a stupid, ignorant lout, and if you worked in any of my stores, which could never happen in the first place, I'd fire you on the spot and the idiot who hired you, too."

  "Aren't you being a little unjust?" Curtis Delman spoke softly, but there was an edge of underlying menace in his voice.

  * * * * *

  This was the first time Walter Pellinger had overstepped the boundaries of acceptable behavior. That he despised John Bridge, he had made clear from the beginning. Now he had come into the open. They all looked at him. Tarsh, who was nearest, seemed to find it amusing.

  "I've got nothing against you, Delman." Pellinger picked his words carefully. "You worked your passage like the rest of us, but that fellow--" he pointed toward John Bridge--"has no right to be here at all. He's a nitwit and a nobody. You're a success and I'm a success. It's not luck, Delman; we both have ability. Call it natural selection, if you like.

  "Darwin did. We've fought for the chance to prolong our lives and, by doing so, we're able to marry again and have children and pass that ability down to them. Why, our lives are essential to the human race!"

  "I should have thought there were sufficient chain-store magnates," said Tarsh.

  Walter Pellinger turned on him. "Don't tempt me, Jason. Your activities on Neptune and Arcturus won't bear close investigation."

  Jason Tarsh smiled and remained silent. There was little humor in his smile. That last remark had done much to heighten his opinion of Walter Pellinger.

  "To return to my point," Pellinger continued, "that man won a sweepstake. He's here not because he's intelligent, but because he's lucky, the something-for-nothing principle. A fat lot of use that is to the Universe. Why, his descendants will be as stupid as himself and there's no room for the manual laborer in this Age. It's an intolerable waste."

  "If I thought you believed any of that," said Delman, "I should be the first to respect your feelings. But we've been 'cooped up' together, to use your expression, for seven months and I know you better than your shareholders do. Oh, yes, you can put it across at a Board Meeting, this lofty idea of self-sacrifice and the sum of human good; but it isn't true and you know it. You're here for the same reason I'm here--because you're afraid to die. And that goes for all of us." He looked at each of them in turn, as if daring them to contradict him. "Yes, we've got ability, all right, and self-confidence. But what do we do with these fancied qualities? We use them to make money with which to buy back our youth."

  * * * * *

  Delman got to his feet and hobbled over toward the vidar screen. He stood with his back to the screen, looking down on them.

  "And what do we do with our youth?" he asked. "We use that to make money for our old age. We have no choice. Not only is the
price of rejuvenation extortionate in itself, but also, by a whim of the legislature, we are declared dead and the burden of 'death duty' falls on our estates. When we return, we return poor. And so the cycle continues--the endless quest for money, the means of perpetual preservation.

  "We are careers, not men and women!" the lawyer went on vehemently. "We don't enjoy life. We have neither the time nor the courage to enjoy it. Our children are few and we ignore them, for should they inherit this terrible urge, they would be our competitors. No, Mr. Pellinger, there is only one real man among us and that is John Bridge. He alone has enjoyed life and he goes back determined to enjoy it for a second and last time. But we, by dint of work and learning and sharp-practice, may prolong the agony once again. Ours are the wasted lives."

  "Oh, Mr. Delman! Surely, that's overstating the case?" Gillian Murray had the reedy voice common to so many elderly spinsters. "What about all those difficult problems you've solved? Many of them are of great importance. Everybody says so."

  "Then I don't agree with everybody, Miss Murray," Delman replied. "Complications are the bread and butter of my trade. We make them for money and we unravel them for more money. One day, you draft a will; the next, you break a Trust deed--the balance remains even. It's true you perform a function, but it's questionable whether that function is of any real value."

  John Bridge got up from his chair. His rubicund features were creased in bewilderment.

  "This is beyond me," he said. "I'm sorry if I annoyed Mr. Pellinger. I didn't mean to. I think I'll take a nap."

  He walked thoughtfully out into the corridor, a book in his left hand, his right arm stretched out to the handrail overhead.

  "There's something about Mr. Bridge," Gillian Murray said reflectively, "that reminds me of the Statue of Liberty."

  "Probably the hollow head," said Jason Tarsh.

  * * * * *

  It was ninety years since the lawyer had last seen Rejuvenal. And now, after all those decades of unremitting toil, he saw it again--a small purple blob on the vidar screen, a hundred thousand miles away--a blob that would grow and grow until it filled the entire screen. Soon the distant harmony of light and shade would break up, throwing into relief the jagged peaks and plunging crevices that formed the surface of the planet.

  He watched it, fascinated, wondering whether this approach was to be his last, or whether he would be asking himself the same questions a thousand years to come. Perhaps it was this moment above all others that made the endless months of scraping and self-sacrifice suddenly worthwhile.

  "It won't run away," said a voice beside him. He turned his head. Gillian Murray stood there, wrinkled and benign, her keen blue eyes regarding him with quizzical humor.

  "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't know you were here."

  "Oh, don't apologize, Mr. Delman. It's just that you've seen it all before, so I'm the one who should be excited."

  The lawyer nodded. "Yes," he admitted, "you've got something to be excited about. Years ago, longer than either of us would want to remember, I saw you on the stage. It was one of the important moments in my life. You see, before then, I'd always regarded 'beauty' and 'perfection' as abstract qualities. I was wrong. Are you going back to the theatre?"

  Gillian Murray paused for a moment. "No," she replied finally. "I did intend to and, after your flattery, I almost feel I should, but I've been thinking over what you said a few weeks back--you know, about us being careers rather than flesh and blood. Mind you, I don't agree completely; we're not as bad as all that. No, it's more the feeling that I've lived one sort of life and it would be stupid to repeat the same thing over again. This time, I'd like to marry and have a family and settle down--all the ordinary things. Does that sound sensible?"

  "Very sensible," said Curtis Delman.

  * * * * *

  Their eyes strayed back to the vidar screen. The planet had grown larger. Already it was possible to make out the rippling serrulation of contours. Another hour and the spaceboat would rest motionless on the purple rock.

  "Somehow it's frightening--" Gillian Murray shivered--"the idea that Nature can work back to front, reverse the aging process."

  "It's not an idea," he said. "It's a fact."

  "Yes, I know," she replied, "but it's still uncanny. I've so many doubts. I mean will I really look the same? And my mind? Oh, they've told me there's no change--but there must be!" She buried her head in her hands.

  Delman looked at her with compassion. "You needn't worry," he said. "Nothing can go wrong. The memory remains unimpaired; it's only the ability to make use of it that suffers--the knowledge is at your disposal. You'll be just like other young people, heedless and disinclined to profit from experience. You see, the mind is like a machine; you press the right buttons and it draws the right conclusion. The buttons are the facts to be considered and their selection is a matter of judgment. When we're young, our judgment is often at fault. When we're very young, we can't reason at all. There's nothing to fear--only youthful exuberance."

  Before she could answer, the loudspeaker buzzed twice. There was a moment of silence, broken by the voice of Captain Ross.

  "Attention, please! Attention, please! Will all passengers kindly retire to their cabins. The forward jets will be fired in exactly five minutes. I repeat, will all passengers--"

  * * * * *

  It was cool on the veranda, though outside, an alien sun beat down on the smooth expanse of runway, a narrow platform, less than a mile in length--the only flat stretch of land on the planet. Along the far edge, mountains, bathed in sunlight, rose in barren splendor, their sharp peaks reaching for the sky, while, on each remaining side, the ground dropped sheer away, to reform itself in twisting valleys thousands of feet below.

  The house, two stories of prefabricated metal, stood perched on one of the outer corners. Opposite, packed tightly against the rock face, the emergency hangar rose in a gentle curve--a sheen of aluminum in contrast with the purple background of rejuvenite. Between them, the launching ramp stretched lengthwise down the runway, inclining steeply for the first fifty feet, then leveling out so that the cruel blast of the takeoff would be dispersed harmlessly over the edge of the precipice.

  A few small store sheds were the only other signs of habitation.

  It was too hot to do anything constructive. They relaxed in their deck-chairs, grateful for the way in which the fans moved the monotonous heat into unexpected currents of warm air.

  Walter Pellinger looked upward expectantly, a sudden movement that caused the little beads of perspiration on his head to run together and course down his neck in a steady stream. He ran a handkerchief around the inside of his collar. "What's the time?" he asked.

  "Quarter past ten," said Tarsh.

  "All right, Jason, you've had your fun. Now perhaps you'll consult the right dial. We'd all like to know."

  "I can never get used to these five-hour days," said Gillian Murray. "It makes one feel so restless."

  Curtis Delman frowned in mock reproof. The lawyer was in his prime, the natural strength of his features enhanced by the iron-gray hair and powerful physique.

  "Really, Gillian," he said, "you ought to be thankful it's summer. At least, you've got three hours of daylight."

  "Well, I can't understand it," said John Bridge. "We've been here sixty Earth days and the sun always sets at the same time."

  "Nonsense," Delman replied. "It's been later each day. Though not much, I grant you. Remember, summer still has nine years to run."

  "Will someone please tell me the time?" said Walter Pellinger.

  Jason Tarsh regarded him with approval. "That's much better. It's two o'clock."

  * * * * *

  Of the five of them, John Bridge and Jason Tarsh were the least changed. True, that 'lucky fool,' as Walter Pellinger called Bridge, had lost a good deal of weight and his face was not quite so full as it had been, but it was the same John Bridge who had climbed on board at Jupiter. The change in Jason Tarsh was even less m
arked. Time had ironed out a few creases here and there, and his back was straighter. But, apart from that, he looked the same at fifty as he had at a hundred--gaunt, resilient and merciless.

  "It's due anytime now," said Walter Pellinger, his eyes still fixed on the empty segment of horizon above the near end of the runway.

  The others remained silent. The lawyer imagined that they were all thinking of the incoming spaceboat. The landing today was something like a dress-rehearsal for their own departure in thirty days. It broke the tedium of their existence and with it would come a change of staff, the unloading of supplies and the news from home. But when the next landing took place, they themselves would be waiting, young and eager, to go back and start life afresh.

  Gillian Murray was looking toward the door behind them, her lovely profile turned in his direction. He followed the line of her gaze. There, in the hallway, stood the two house servants, man and wife. They had both arrived on the relief spaceboat a month ago, a comfortable, middle-aged couple. Now they were almost like children, leaping up and down with impatience, counting every second which brought Captain Ross nearer--young, graceful creatures, hand in hand, reunited in their youth.

  Delman found himself smiling in sympathy. "Yes," he said, "those are the vital years."

  "I was just thinking the same thing." She turned to him. There were tears of happiness in her eyes. At that moment, he caught a glimpse of her real beauty, something deeper than the merely physical--a purity of expression mirrored from within, clear and composed, like a reflection of the soul.

  "There it is!" Walter Pellinger announced excitedly. He pointed.

  Out in the distance, a small speck hurtled toward them. Soon it would streak low overhead, until a final burst from the jets brought it to a halt at the far end of the runway.

  The two young servants could restrain themselves no longer. Oblivious to danger, they began to run down the side of the landing-strip, racing toward a spot parallel to where they knew the spaceboat would draw to a standstill.

  It was John Bridge who noticed them. The others were all looking in the opposite direction. He leaped to his feet and dashed outside.